“Roll ship, Miss Montoya—put them on our starboard side,” ordered Chan from the captain’s chair, with a grimace. The attacks were coming too fast, the crew were exhausted beyond all belief, and the constant stream of hostile Klingons had left the ship unable to effect all but the most basic of repairs. He glanced down at the repeater display of the damage control board, and he shook his head.

“They are coming about, Sir!” barked Pavel from Tactical, and Chan suddenly smiled as he recognized the maneuver.

“Miss Biddle! Prepare to lock the forward tractor on the lead ship—on my orders hold her in place! Mister Roshenko, hold fire to my command—then give me everything you have!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” both officers answered.

“Mister Malik,” Chan continued as the two Klingon bird of prey cruisers finished their turn and started a new attack run, “reinforce the forward shields.”

“Bowen here, Sir,” a voice came over the speaker, “Commander Malik is in surgery—reinforcing forward shields; it’s a mess down here, Commander, but the engines are still on-line!”

“Understood, Mister Bowen,” the Andorian answered. “Give me as much power as you can to the shields and forward tractor.”

The two cruisers on the screen parted course and then swept back into towards the Republic in an intricate maneuver that required perfect timing—and would cause their weapons to impact almost simultaneously on the same shield location.

“Now, Miss Biddle!” he barked.

The tractor beam caught the Klingon and Republic heaved as the hostile vessel slammed to a sudden halt, both ships spinning around their joint center of mass despite the best efforts of the stabilizers—the bird of prey captured by the tractor sliding directly in front of her sister ship as the second vessel opened fire!

“Finish her, Mister Roshenko!” Chan ordered crisply, and a volley of four torpedoes streaked away from the Republic, even as a golden phaser beam burned into the tractored ship’s shields. It was too much for the old K’vort-class ship, the combination of Klingon disruptors and torpedoes on her belly and Federation weapons on her back—and she exploded as the second cruiser raced by over the back of Republic.

Pavel did not wait for an order, but golden beams lanced out from the stern arrays and the rear tube spat another torpedo and the Klingon ship staggered; that did not keep her commander from firing his rear torpedo and Republic shook violently again.

“Grissom, Sir. Warp core is in emergency shut-down—we had a coolant breach. We have impulse and battery power only.”

“Can you restore the mains, Mister Grissom?”

“Working on that, Sir.”

“She’s coming back in!” reported Amanda from the science station.

“Divert all power to forward shields, Miss Biddle, get our nose to her, Miss Montoya!” Chan snapped, but he looked at the strength levels of the forward shields and he knew that this time the Klingon would slice straight through them.

At that moment, a new starship came out of warp and interposed itself between the Klingon and Republic, and Chan sat back in his chair and he let out a deep breath of relief, as Admiral Hansen’s Blackhawk—her shields intact—absorbed the fury of the Klingon attack. The bird of prey broke off the attack and started to run—but she couldn’t outrun the salvo of eight photon torpedoes launch by the Akira-class starship and her shields flared against the first explosions, and failed, and the detonations ate into her hull and she erupted in massive fireball, leaving only debris in her wake.

The main viewer flickered and Sig Hansen, tall and blonde and immaculate in his Starfleet uniform stood there on the bridge of his flagship. “Captain Dahlgren, I hope you do not mind if we cut in.”

Chan unfastened the safety straps and he stood. “Admiral Hansen, we do not mind at all. Captain Dahlgren is not . . . available at the moment, Sir.”

Hansen nodded. “Looks like we arrived in the nick of time, Commander Shrak—I would like a full briefing, however. What exactly did Republic do this time?”

“I can beam aboard as soon as our damage control teams get the situation under control, Admiral and provide with that full report then.”

“My engineering and medical teams are standing by to assist, Republic. Blackhawk out.”

The screen returned to its view of local space and Chan nodded. “Miss Biddle,” he said softly, “you have the conn. Send the ship to yellow alert and coordinate with Admiral Hansen’s engineers.” He opened the communicator again. “Engineering, inform the bridge when warp power has been restored.”

“This is all supposition, you realize, Commander,” Hansen said with a frown after Chan finished briefing him fully. “True or not, you have zero concrete evidence of Mar’s involvement.”

“Yes, sir,” Chan said with a quick nod. “Gaining that evidence is one of the reasons that Captain Dahlgren went ahead to Earth—he should arrive tomorrow, in fact. And once he does so, then we can have her brought to justice.”

Hansen shook his head and he swore softly. “This is so far above my pay-grade,” he whispered. “You are claiming that the Argellian Ambassador to the Federation Council is murdering people left and right! In an alliance with a rogue Klingon House . . . so that she can gain the Presidency?”

“Sounds like bad fiction, does it not, Admiral?” Chan answered lightly, but then a serious look came over his face. “That does not stop the matter from being quite real, however. How else can we explain that the Klingons had Republic’s command codes? The ambush that killed Sam Carmichael and the Balao? As they were carrying messages back to Admiral Parker at Starfleet Command? That our own communications with Earth and Starfleet Command are being blocked from the sub-space network?”

Hansen sighed and he sat back in his chair. “We haven’t been able to raise Command either—not since Parker commed me with orders to come to your aid. And before you ask, Commander, I have already changed the command codes aboard Blackhawk.” He shook his head. “This will tear the Federation apart if it becomes public knowledge—especially after the infiltration of our government by the Founders during the War.”

“That rather depends on how it is spun—and whether or not we can find evidence that will stick to Mar. And whether or not Matt simply kills her for threatening his family,” the Andorian finished quietly.

Hansen looked up and he just stared at Chan for several moments. “Will he go that far, Commander Shrak? You know the man better than I.”

“Yes. If she has tried to make good on her threat, he will kill her, damn the consequences. He will not try, he will find a way and she will die.”

Both men were silent for a moment, and then the admiral nodded once again. “Well, that is a matter that we will have to deal with when we arrive at Earth. What is the condition of Republic?”

“Lieutenant Grissom has warp power restored—we can be underway in fifteen minutes,” and Chan shrugged. “We have damage throughout the ship, however. Shields are capable of only fifty-percent strength, the ablative armor is in tatters, a third of our phaser emitters are damaged and off-line, the forward tractor is a write-off, and we have lost all long-range sensors. We also have thirty-two dead and a large number of wounded—and our torpedo magazines are below half.”

He shook his head. “On the good side, neither impulse engine has been damaged. The starboard nacelle took a direct hit yesterday from a decloaking K’tinga, but the secondary systems are on-line and holding. In short, we are half-blind, and lost a lot of our punch, but we aren’t lame—not yet.”

“Admiral Parker said that other ships were en route to provide you with assistance, Commander. When and where they will appear, I have no clue—but I do know that word from the Klingon Empire is that Mak’vegh is charging after you with half of his House Fleet. So how about we get back in warp on a heading for Earth before he charges up our backside with more firepower than either of us can deal with?”

The hologram stared at her for a moment. “How long has it been since you slept, Nurse?”

She thought for a moment and frowned. “Day before yesterday?” she guessed.

Woolsey clucked his tongue and now he frowned. “Well, Blackhawk is sending personnel across to assist,” he looked out of the Sick Bay and he cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. “Once they arrive, I want everyone assigned to Medical to report your quarters and get at least four hours of sleep—six would be better. NO EXCEPTIONS. Now, then,” he said turning back to the young nurse. “What is the condition of the symbiote?”

“It is not responding, Doctor,” Lara answered softly. “Mister Malik remains in a coma—the host body should recover, but the symbiote remains in critical condition.”

The EMH frowned again. “It should have responded to the treatment—if the diagnosis is correct,” he took the PADD from Lara and scrolled through the data again. “I want another cellular scan of the symbiote and the host—let’s see if we missed anything the first time around, Miss Madsen.”

“I will prep the Commander, Doctor.”

“Keep me informed,” Woolsey said as he walked over to another patient. The doors to sickbay slid open before he reached the bio-bed, however, and fresh, rested medical personnel from the Admiral’s ship began to enter—and the Doctor smiled.

“Wonderful—glad you could join us. I am Doctor Woolsey, acting Chief Medical Officer Republic. My people will brief you before they catch some shuteye.”

One of the newcomers came to a halt and he stared at the hologram. “Where is Doctor Talbot?” he asked.

“Doctor Talbot is with the Captain, Doctor . . . ?” Robert answered and asked.

“Not anymore—I want a briefing on the condition of all patients before each of you Republics go off-shift.”

“Pardon me, Doctor Halloway, but this is my sickbay—you are here to assist me.”

“Computer, end EMH,” the doctor from Blackhawk ordered.

“Unable to comply without command override authorization,” the computer broadcast.

“What?”

“The Captain of this ship values me as a Starfleet officer, not merely a hologram, Doctor Halloway,” Woolsey said in a cold voice. “My program has been altered to prevent anyone from ending my program on a whim. Now, if you will join me in my office, I will brief you on the patients and we can assign your personnel to their duties.”

“I don’t take orders from a hologram!”

“In this sickbay, you will either follow my instructions or you will be removed from the ship!”

Halloway smiled. “You haven’t the authority.”

Woolsey tapped his holographic comm badge. “Sick-bay to Security. Escort Doctor Halloway to Transporter Room 3 and return him to Blackhawk; inform Commander Shrak my full report will be forthcoming.”

“Holograms do not give orders on Starfleet vessels!” he insisted. “Not when properly relieved by actual medical personnel!”

“Doctor, you have not relieved me. And you are not here to relieve me. You were assigned to Republic to assist me. And you will either do that while obeying my orders, or I will have you clapped in irons and removed from this ship!”

The doors slid open again and two burly Marines entered the Sickbay. The senior nodded at Doctor Woolsey. “Is there a problem, Doc?” he asked.

“That depends if next words out of the mouth of Blackhawk’s junior surgeon are ‘aye, aye, sir’ or not.” Woolsey said in a somber voice. “And if the words are not ‘aye, aye, sir’, then you will remove him from my Sickbay and from this ship, and I will write a formal complaint into his permanent file. A compliant that Commander Shrak will endorse, I might add.”

The Marine shook his head and chuckled. “Don’t think he’s joking, Sir. He’s not, and the XO will back him.”

If nothing else, it's nice to see that some in Starfleet are willing to accept the (sometimes) unexpected results of their technology - sentient holograms and androids as "persons" such - even if the majority still have issues with the concept.

And I still chuckle every time I read his name.... Stargate reference, perhaps?

If nothing else, it's nice to see that some in Starfleet are willing to accept the (sometimes) unexpected results of their technology - sentient holograms and androids as "persons" such - even if the majority still have issues with the concept.

And I still chuckle every time I read his name.... Stargate reference, perhaps?

There's still a bit of a problem there though. While Data has been legally recognised as a person and a citizen, as of the end of Voyager, the EMH had only been recognised as enjoying the legal status of an author. If that is still the case, the EMH cannot wield authority in and of itself, and it is legitimate question as to whether a superior (i.e. Shrak) can order a subordinate to take orders from someone outside the chain of command. Strikes me as somewhat of a bluff.

"Only a fool expects rational behaviour from their fellow humans. Why do you expect it from a machine that humans have designed?"

“Qapla’, Matthew!” Koram barked at Matt, Quincy Talbot, Chris Roberts, and Alvin Thiesman as the four Starfleet officers stood on the warship’s transporter pads—all dressed in civilian clothing. Banner, under the command of Lieutenant Turovik, assisted by two members of the crew, had been dropped off twenty-four hours before and was now approaching Vulcan. With that part of their cover intact, Matt and his small band had travelled to Earth aboard Amar. “We will remain here in orbit . . . ostensibly to give my crew a chance to experience the many cultures of Earth and enjoy a few days of rest and recreation. Should you need us, we will be prepared my brother.”

Matt nodded briskly. “I have no doubt of that, Lord Koram. Have you managed to contact Cha’shin?”

The Klingon shook his head. “No . . . and that worries me, Matthew Dahlgren. Are you certain you trust this officer you hope will aid you?”

“Ben Maxwell? Koram, I trust him as much as I trust you.”

“Ah. I hope then that you find success, Matthew—and that your enemies will deliver themselves into your grasp.”

Koram turned to the crewman standing at the transporter controls and the barked out a series of command in the Klingon tongue. Matt raised his hand to his chest and he nodded at Koram as the device began to hum; then he and his companions dissolved within a curtain of light.

********************************************************

The quiet night was broken as a transporter beam emerged from nothing and then the forms of the four men solidified, the curtain of light surrounding them fading away into darkness once more. Although momentarily distraught by the sudden burst of light, the crickets and frogs once again began to chirp and croak.

“Right in the middle of nowhere,” grumbled Quincy. “And Starfleet Security will probably be beaming in right behind us to find out who is beaming down here in the middle of the damn night!”

“Relax, Doctor Talbot,” Matt said as he started walking. “Koram beamed down, and then right back up again, seventy-two Klingons from his ship—calibrating his systems, he is telling Security right now. Of course, he didn’t realize that Security frowns on such activity and will shut down the transporter units—at least that is what he is going to tell them. Security does respond to unauthorized beam-downs—but they are going to be hard-pressed to get to us immediately since more than a dozen took place before the Klingons energized our transport.”

Matt stepped onto a gravel road running through the fields and took a left. “And if they do beam in? We are four humans out for a stroll on autumn eve—not Klingons.”

The doctor snorted. “And won’t they ask us why we are out and about for the night? And query our IDs?”

“Certainly,” Matt answered. And except for the chirping of the crickets and the croaking of the frogs and the crunch of the gravel beneath their boots, the night grew quiet once more.

Finally, Quincy sighed. “And what, O Great and Powerful Oz, will we do when they discover that all four of us are supposed to be aboard a Federation Starship heading towards the borders of the Federation?”

“Nothing is impossible, Sir. I may be a Marine—and enlisted at that—but I know a few tricks. They won’t pass muster for a full security examination, but a cursory reading, in the field, in the early hours of the night? The overlay will show us as local residents, with only a few minor infractions against our records.”

“Minor infractions?” asked Chris as he kept scanning the woods to either side of the road with his eyes. “Why on earth would you give any of us a criminal record?”

“Because in the real world, Mister Roberts,” the Marine answered, “very few people are fine, upstanding citizens that volunteer for Starfleet. People get in altercations; they drink too much real alcohol; they drive too fast; they do dumb things—and nothing in the universe sets off alarm bells in a Security officer’s head like someone with an immaculate past.”

In the distance behind them, there was a distant hum of a transporter beam.

“Eyes front, gentlemen,” Matt said, as he continued to walk. “You were saying, Mister Thiesman?”

“Yes, sir. Mister Roberts, once the Security officer looks at your ID, sees that you are from this area, a local who has never left home, sees that you have been detained four times in the past ten years for brawling and intoxication, he is going to mentally slot you into ‘harmless, local, yokel’. The Security beaming in now, they aren’t local—they don’t know you and they don’t expect to know you—but they certainly know people like the ones with your record.”

Ahead of them on the road, another transporter trace suddenly appeared, and two Security officers in armor and helmets suddenly appeared.

Matt stopped and he nodded. “Evening,” he said calmly. “You here about the Klingons who beamed down a few minutes ago? Back that way?” he said pointing towards the fields on the far side of the woods.

One of the Security officers frowned. “How did you know they were Klingons?”

Matt chuckled. “Because they beamed down in that field and we could see them from the road. Beamed down and beamed right back up again—is the Starfleet running an exercise tonight?”

“Identification,” the guard demanded. Matt shrugged and pulled out his card, passed it over. One by one, the others did the same.

“Why are you folks out this time of night?”

“Our wives are throwing a baby shower for that young man’s missus. We got out before the estrogen levels began to peak. Old Bill Maddox has a pub right down this lane . . . about another kilometer and a half ahead.” Matt smiled again and he leaned close to the Security officer. “Thought we might toast him starting up a family—you boys want a drink?” He asked as he pulled out a silver flask from his jacket pocket, the sharp smell of real whiskey rising in the night air as unscrewed the top.

The officer frowned, but the second one handed back the IDs and nodded. “Clean,” he said.

“Be on your way then,” the first said. “But don’t even think about driving if you are drinking real whiskey.”

“Why the hell do you think we are walking, officer? For our health? My old lady will skin me alive I get in trouble with the law again,” Matt thundered.

“Just you watch yourselves—the local constabulary will be at that pub in force if any of you start something,” the second officer warned, frowning at Chris.

Matt shook his head sadly. “We never start anything, officer—but we have finished it a time or two.”

The officers gave him a dirty look again as Matt raised the flask in salute and took a deep pull, then one of them spoke into his communicator and the pair beamed away. “Care for a snort, gentlemen?” Matt asked.

“No, sir,” answered Alvin. “Thank you, no, Captain,” replied Chris.

But Quincy grabbed the silver flask and pulled down a long swallow. He sighed and sealed the top before passing it back over to Matt. “I thought you were never going to ask,” he complained. “And how far much farther is it? My feet are already aching.”

“Bill lives in town not far from the pub. Just about fifteen hundred meters or so on down this road. As the crow flies,” he qualified his remark as the captain started forward again.

“As the crow flies? And how far, exactly, would that be as the doctor walks?”

Benjamin Maxwell, Commodore in Starfleet, cursed as he stubbed his toe against a piece of furniture in the darkness of his home as the door-bell rang yet again and some fool imbecile banged on the wood! He gritted his teeth and shook the sleep from his head as he made his way down the stairs and turned on the foyer and exterior lights. The knocking on the door came to a halt and Ben tightened his robe around his body. He paused at a table near the entrance and slid open one drawer, extracting a civilian model stun-only phaser from within, which he placed in one of the robes pockets, cradled in one hand. And then he opened the door.

And he took a quick step backwards in surprised shock upon seeing the four men who were officially many light-years distant.

Ben shook his head in disbelief. “I did not need to hear this, Matt,” he said as he stood up from his chair, still shaking his head. “Delena Mar—Ambassador Mar of Argellius—the woman who is poised to become the next President of the Federation—is trying to kill you and your crew? You believe that she has already been behind the attack on Balao? And she is working hand-in-glove with a Klingon renegade?”

He walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a stiff drink, downed half of it in a single swallow, and then refilled the glass.

Matt nodded. “She is a threat to all that the Federation stands for, Commodore. I know it—now I just have to prove it.”

“I would suggest, Matt, that you not use my rank if you want my help. Christ, my counselor will think I have lost my mind,” he continued. But then he nodded. “Josiah authorized this?”

“He did, Ben. But until I know that he has found the person who leaked Republic’s command codes, I cannot make contact—if Security discovers I am on Earth, and Mar finds out . . . my family is in tremendous jeopardy.”

Benjamin Maxwell’s face fell. “Matt,” he said softly as he poured another glass and handed it to the Captain of Republic. “Your family has already been attacked,” he finished, but held up one hand as Matt jerked in his chair. “They are missing . . . not dead, Matt, but missing. Along with the Klingon ambassador. Security is livid—and there are four dead men in your ex-wife’s home. They want answers.”

Matt took a deep pull of the whiskey, restoring some—but not all—of the color to his face. “Cha’shin has them somewhere safe,” I hope, he thought, but did not say. “Cass?” he asked.

“She was attacked on the same day in New York, Matt. She disabled one of her assailants and a Vulcan—tentatively identified as Ambassador Sepak came to her aid and stopped the second. They have both vanished as well.”

Matt looked up. “Sepak? I was not able to get in touch with him—the Vulcan Science Academy said that he has taken a sabbatical and he is out of contact.”

“Really?” Ben whispered. “Then how did he know your daughter was in danger?” He paused and licked his lips. “How certain are you that your treatment of the Ordan bio-weapon was successful, Matt?”

“He appeared in full control of himself—the Science Academy gave him a clean bill of health, Ben.”

The Commodore groaned as he sat back down in his chair. “Matt, how much of a background check did you run on Mar?”

“Everything Republic had in the database. But there is a large of section of her records that are classified above my pay-grade.”

Ben nodded. “But not mine. Fifteen years ago, Ambassador Mar was Lieutenant Mar, a science officer in Starfleet, where she was assigned to USS Hera as part of the crew that explored the Cauldron—and made First Contact with the Lorsham.”

“Oh shit,” Matt whispered.

“Exactly,” the commodore continued. “Her current staff all consists of former crewmen and officers from Hera—her aide, Jas Cruikshank, was Hera’s chief of security. All of their service records have been sealed—by an anonymous order from the Federation Council issued ten years, the same year that Mar became the Argellian Ambassador to the Council. But they didn’t manage to seal the records in Starfleet HQ . . . and I did some digging on my own after your court-martial and seeing what Mar was trying to do to you and Republic then. Did you know that the Lorsham sent a delegation to Earth?”

“No.”

“They were here for six months before Hera returned them. Supposedly returned them,” Ben said with a sad smile. “They sent nine diplomats to Earth, but I can only confirm that eight were transported back to Hak’ta-thor.”

Matt slowly nodded. “Without the Ordan-artifacts, they cannot produce their bio-weapon, Ben. But this does explain why Mar seems to hate me so much.”

“Yes it does, Matt. But we have no proof—only a working hypothesis. So what do you need from me?”

“Clean IDs to get through Security and use the planetary transporters; phasers; communicators that cannot be traced. I’ll try and leave you as far away from the splatter as I can, Ben.”

“Too late for that, Matt. You know the old saying, in for a penny, in for a pound. Well, looks like I am in for a gold sovereign.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Matt,” Ben warned as he sat back. “We might not get anywhere with this, and if we do not find proof that she has been infected, she might wind up becoming President.”

“One way or the other, she will not, Ben,” Matt said coldly. “Even if it means I have to kill her myself—she will not become President.”

Ben Maxwell, a man who once took it upon himself to prove that the Cardassians were violating their treaty—a man who had killed to prove that to himself and others in Starfleet—just nodded.

“You have my word, Matt. If it comes to that, I will see to it that your family remains safe—once we recover them.”

Matt nodded and he took a sip of the whiskey. “Then shall we begin planning this forlorn hope?”

My muse has left me on this story and I really need a break. However, I have an entire novel that is complete, and I will begin posting snippets of it later on tonight. That will give you folks something to read while I refind my mental balance. LOL

Be warned, there are spoilers in there, but I'd appreciate any feedback you might have to offer. The design is NOT mine, but is based off a drawing by Simon Toygall which I modified in paint. Let me know what you think, and the next snippet should be up in a few hours time.

Cass awoke with a start to the terrifying sounds of a man screaming. She jerked upright to see that Sepak was kneeling across from another man, holding the man’s face in his hands—his eyes tightly closed and an intense look of concentration upon his face. The man, however, screeched in agony as he clawed at the powerful hands that held him. And Matt Dahlgren’s daughter blanched as a trickle of blood began to stream from the man’s nose and ears, his body went limp, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed.

Sepak’s eyes opened and he frowned at the corpse before him. “Pity,” he whispered. “I had thought that the secrets of the mind-meld were now mine—I was mistaken.” He drew out a hand phaser and adjusted the controls; he then fired a golden beam into the corpse, vaporizing it. And without turning around, he smiled. “She wakes,” he said as he rose from the ground and turned to face her. “I do not understand why I cannot complete the meld, child—I know all that Sepak knew.”

The young woman stood from the couch and she shivered. “Obviously you do not, or you would not be having such troubles now.”

Sepak darted across the room and he grabbed Cass by the throat. “Careful, child. You are valuable to me—but not that valuable,” he growled before he released her. “It is a matter of physiology . . . Vulcans are natural telepathic beings. I should be able to complete the meld—why can I not?”

“Perhaps Sepak is still fighting you,” Cass spat as she rubbed the red marks his grip had left on her neck.

“Child . . . there is no Sepak. There is only Ordan. Sepak was vanquished from existence when I occupied his mind.”

“That is a lie,” Cass said softly.

“Oh? Tell me then, child of Dahlgren, enlighten one who knows more of memory than you ever shall?”

“The Vulcans can transfer their katra—their souls—upon their death. These katras live on, where their knowledge can be consulted by high-ranking Vulcan officials long after their bodies death. You possess Sepak’s body . . . but were he truly dead, his memories would have died with him. They did not; ergo, Sepak must still exist—and he is fighting you, Ordan.”

“Clever girl,” Sepak/Ordan said with a narrow smile. “Yes, Sepak has retreated within himself—but he does not fight me any longer. He is too weak for that.”

“Then why can you not meld with another living person? Sepak is fighting you, Ordan. He is waging a war to keep you from the minds of others. The more you try, the harder you fight against him, the more damage you cause your victims. It is not that lack the knowledge, Ordan . . . you lack Sepak’s discipline.”

Sepak/Ordan frowned and then he nodded. “Perhaps you are correct, Cassandra Dahlgren. But Sepak grows weaker by the hour—and I grow stronger. And while that meld did not accomplish my goal, it has shown me that I am learning from my mistakes. I was able to glimpse his thoughts and soon I will be able to rewrite his personality as my Gift did to the Lorsham long ago.”

Sepak/Ordan snorted. “The Lorsham—they failed me. They were unable to recover my artifacts from the Kraal and they failed me utterly against your Federation. They are unworthy of being my servants . . . and for that I shall withdraw from them my presence.” He walked over to communications station in the safe-house and entered a short code and pressed the transmit key. “I feared that I would have to do this one day—but it was my hope that such frail beings could overcome their deficiencies and become worthy of being my thralls. Humans will make far more effective thralls, I believe.”

“What have you done, Ordan?” Cass asked as she sat back down.

“What I should have years ago. I have removed a thorn in my side that has only hindered me.”

********************************************************

“Commodore!” one of the bridge officers of USS Paris cried out . . . but Helen Arouet did not need his anguished cry as she stood from the command chair aboard the Apollo-class starship. Nuclear fireballs were erupting across the surface of Hak’ta-thor, consuming each and every center of population in sequence.

“My God,” she whispered. “Source of the detonations?”

“Nothing got through the blockade, Commodore,” her exec whispered. “And there were no missile launches on the surface—they must have been pre-positioned for maximum destruction,” he paused and what little color in his face remained drained away. “Projections indicate that all but 0.01% of the Lorsham are now dead—the radiation from those weapons was enhanced . . . the survivors will die within hours.”

“Commodore,” another officer said, "there was a transmission along the buoy chain directed at Hak’ta-thor twenty-two minutes ago—it had codes of the Federation Council and was automatically relayed to the surface by the computer.”

“Did we record that transmission?” she barked.

“Affirmative, Commodore. It was audio-only, replaying now,” he answered as the speaker crackled to life.

“Vorshun . . . know that this is the Voice of Ordan speaking unto you. Authentication code Seven Six Beta Gamma Four Two Sigma Tau Three Five One Nine Eight. Execute the Omega Directive.”

“End of transmission, Commodore,” the crewman finished.

Helen sat down heavily in her chair. Three billion Lorsham gone—wiped away from existence. An entire culture—an entire species—destroyed in the blink of an eye. “Communications. Open a Priority Channel to Star Fleet Command,” she said in a wooden voice. “Number One, you have the Conn, I will be in my ready room.”

“That is not good enough, Special Agent Faulkner,” Josiah snarled. “I am aware Matt’s family is missing—the entire law enforcement apparatus of the Federation is aware that his family is missing. I want to hear that they have been found . . . safe, secure, and alive.”

“Sir, achieving that is our top priority,” the special agent from Starfleet’s Criminal Investigative Service answered. “Unfortunately, that does not change the fact that, as of this moment, we have no idea where Captain Dahlgren’s ex-wife and his daughters are. I can tell you what we know . . . I cannot and I will not speculate beyond that, Admiral Parker.”

Josiah sighed and he nodded. “It’s not your fault, Daniel. I simply cannot believe that this has happened on Earth!”

Daniel nodded grimly. “We have confirmed that Melody Holder, formerly Melody Dahlgren, and two of her daughters, Amanda and Sarah were present in the house, along with a Klingon who forensics has identified as Ambassador Cha’shin—the Klingon Ambassador to the Federation. Ambassador Cha’shin and Sarah Dahlgren were injured in the attack—the ambassador’s aide and bodyguard was found dead outside the residence. Four men assaulted the home—all four of them are dead; one at the hands of a hunting shotgun that was wielded by Dahlgren’s daughter Amanda. Despite having two injured, the fugi- . . .” Daniel paused at the angry expression on Josiah’s face, and he held up a placating hand, “Admiral, while SFCIS considers Dahlgren’s family to be victims, officially they have been classified as fugitives.”

“By who, Special Agent?” Josiah growled softly.

“The Federation Bureau of Investigation, Admiral. Warrants have been issued for the arrest of all four—and Dahlgren’s eldest daughter who is missing from New York City.”

“On what charges?”

“Murder and conspiracy to commit murder,” the special agent replied, bracing himself for an explosion from the man across the desk.

Daniel Faulkner was not disappointed. “MURDER?!” Josiah thundered. “WHO THE HELL DO THESE PEOPLE THINK THEY ARE DEALING WITH?”

“Admiral, the FBI has the same forensic information that we do—Melody Dahlgren killed one intruder, her daughter Amanda another; the Klingon killed two. Without eye witnesses and lacking their side of the story, that organization has taken their apparent flight as evidence of guilt. In fact, I have been ordered by the FBI to drop our investigation of the matter,” Daniel smiled as Josiah began to draw in air for another explosion, “I told him he could go have intercourse with a Horta. This is the family of an active duty Starfleet Captain, and it is well within the jurisdiction of the SFNCIS.”

Josiah nodded and his outburst turned into a grim chuckle. “Daniel, I think it is time that I brought you into the full story here. You are one of the few people I trust with this—but you need to know, if we are going to keep Matt’s family safe and sound.”

Both men turned to look towards the door as it slid open and uniformed agents of the FBI and Starfleet’s own Counter-Espionage Division entered the office.

“Admiral Parker, will you stand, please?” one agent asked.

“What is this?”

“By order of the Federation Council, you are hereby under arrest for treason, mass murder, and espionage. Our investigation into the loss of USS Balao confirms that you sent the Klingons the command codes for that starship and for USS Republic.”

“WHAT!” Josiah bellowed as he jumped to his feet, and one of the FBI agents pulled out a pair of shackles. “If you resist you will be stunned. Special Agent Faulkner, you are dismissed—by order of the Council, you are to discuss this with no one, under penalty of arrest for conspiracy against the Federation. Is that understood?”

“He has rights under Federation law,” Daniel snapped. “And I will contact an attorney to represent him.”

“An attorney for his defense has been appointed—and you will contact NO ONE, Special Agent. Or I will have you thrown in the cell beside him. Acknowledge my order, Special Agent.”

“I acknowledge your order,” Daniel growled even as he ground his teeth in frustration.

“Good. Now leave—my team needs to catalogue the prisoner’s office.”

Unable to offer the Chief of Starfleet Operations any assistance, Daniel nodded and he walked out of the office to see the shocked faces of the officers and NCOs who watched as their commander—Starfleet’s commander—was dragged away into custody.

The FBI agent stepped out into the hallway and stood beside Daniel. “In fact, Special Agent, you are hereby relieved of duty. We have orders to investigate how deep the rot goes here in Starfleet Command—perhaps we did not get all of Admiral Leyden’s supporters after all.”

“You have no authority over my office,” Daniel whispered. “I will continue my duties until the next Chief of Starfleet Operations tells me otherwise.”

“He just has, Special Agent. I have been appointed by the Council to make certain that Starfleet’s house is in order. Would you care to see the authorization?”

Daniel stared at the civilian, but then he shook his head.

“Good. Now go home and stay there until we send for you.”

“That’s it? Just go home and do nothing while the family of a Starfleet officer is missing?”

“We have determined that Dahlgren’s family are fugitives fleeing justice. They will be found—that is no longer any concern of yours. And Special Agent Faulkner?” the new Chief of Starfleet Operations said.

“Yes?”

“Turn in your duty phaser at the door.”

Daniel walked off without a reply, but his right fist was clenched so tight that the knuckles were white.

“The President will see you now, Admiral Shran,” the young aide said politely to the Andorian waiting in the outer office. Hawth Shran nodded and he stood, tugging his uniform taut against his lean body. The former Chief of Starfleet Operations nodded his thanks and walked into the office where the President and his guests stood in greeting.

“Admiral Shran,” the President said warmly as he crossed the room and shook the officers hand.

“Mister President.”

“I believe you know everyone here? Ambassador Mar of Argellius II is the ranking Councilwoman on the Starfleet Oversight Committee; Director Maurice Fontain is the head of the Federation Bureau of Investigation—and the interim Chief of Starfleet Operations.”

Shran frowned. “Yes, I am familiar with both of them, Mister President, and it is precisely this matter that I requested a private discussion over.”

“Please sit, Admiral,” the President said as he took his own seat, followed by the others and Shran. The Bolian sighed. Min Zife had become President in the aftermath of Admiral Leyton’s coup attempt . . . which had led to the fall of President Jaresh-Inyo’s government. And it was beginning to appear that Zife would be a one-term President as well, with Mar leading the opposition over the failures of the Federation government to adequately deal with the humanitarian and environmental impact of the Dominion War. Zife leaned back in his seat and he looked again at the man who shared skin coloration with him, and he smiled. Appointed Hwath Shran as Chief of Starfleet Operations had been his first action and the man had worked wonders in bypassing the bureaucracy and cutting through the deadwood to win the Dominion War. At which point he had stepped down, leaving Josiah Parker to win the peace. And Zife sighed again.

“I believe that I know why you are here, Admiral. But in the event that I am mistaken, perhaps you can inform me.”

“This matter of Admiral Parker’s arrest—and the lack of civil liberties being allowed to him in confinement—has caused great . . . unease in Starfleet. I am here to find out for myself, Mister President, exactly why he was arrested, why his rights under Federation law have been suspended, and why a civilian has been appointed to a post held previously—throughout the history of this government—by a member of Starfleet.”

Fontain frowned. “Admiral Shran, the Bureau does not discuss on-going investigations and cases with anyone—your request is out of line!”

But Zife held up one hand and he nodded to Mar, who had begun to reply, but then closed her mouth.

“Thank you, Mister President,” she said calmly. “Director, these are not normal circumstances. And given the penetration of this government by the Founders and the circumstances that surrounded the Leyton Coup, I feel it would be more than appropriate to brief the Admiral. Indeed, it might well prevent rash action being taken by those who are accusing President Zife of rail-roading a decorated veteran with many years of honorable service.”

Zife made himself nod in agreement—she was his principle opponent, diametrically opposed on many issues, so he could not afford to antagonize her when she defended him. “I quite agree. Admiral Shran has clearance for this information and I am granting him need-to-know, Director.”

Fontain looked down and then he grudgingly nodded. “Admiral,” he said looking Shran directly in the eyes, “you are aware of the recent loss of USS Balao and the attack on USS Republic, yes?”

“I am, Director.”

“The attackers against Republic had access to her command codes, Admiral,” he said as Shran grew rigid. Fontain nodded again. “And USS Eagle managed to recover some of the debris from Balao; they confirmed that the weapon signatures from that attack were Klingon in origin. The Bureau began an intensive investigation into how Republics command codes found there way into the hands of this renegade—and we discovered that those codes, as well as the command codes for Balao had been transmitted to a known Orion Syndicate operative directly from the home of Admiral Parker, using Admiral Parker's own personal comm codes.”

Shran released a hiss of breathe as if someone had just punched him in the belly.

The President shook his head. “I would never have though Josiah would betray his fellow Starfleet officers, but the evidence is damning, Admiral. Director Fontain brought this matter to my attention twenty-four hours ago, and I was the one who ordered the immediate arrest and sequestration of Admiral Parker.”

Mar chimed in. “It was deemed imperative to prevent Admiral Parker from destroying any incriminating files that might have resulted from going through normal channels. In consultation with the Federation Council, the President and the Director decided to hold Admiral Parker in isolation until the investigation into files at Starfleet Command and elsewhere has been completed—we expect that investigation to come to an end within the next week. If,” and Mar shook her head, “if Admiral Parker was part of a criminal conspiracy within Starfleet, it behooves us to act quickly to identify those other conspirators—those men and women who would murder the entire crew of two Starships, and bring them to justice. Following normal procedure would give those officers—if they exist—an opportunity to cover their trail and hide their crimes.”

“The investigation has further revealed that four deceased men found at the residence of Captain Dahlgren’s family, who may have been involved in an attack upon that family, were also connected to the same Orion that Parker had contact with,” Fontain reported, and he shook his head sadly. “I hope—I pray—that this is just a case of one man being overwhelmed by mental illness and his passions. Our investigation has turned up that despite appearances to the contrary, Admiral Parker has been . . . jealous of Matthew Dahlgren for quite some time, both professionally and socially. His own encrypted personal logs indicate that he gave Captain Dahlgren command of Republic hoping that he would fail to rehabilitate that ship, so that he might then comfort Dahlgren’s ex-wife and win her love. He must have had these delusions for years, but no one saw the signs.”

Shran sat there in stunned disbelief. “You have evidence of all of this?”

The President nodded. “We do. The Director has shown it to me and the Director . . .,” he paused and gave Fontain a long look, “will make it available for your examination.”

Fontain bristled, but at last he nodded.

“I would have thought my right arm more likely to betray me than Josiah Parker betray his oath,” Shran whispered.

“As did I, Admiral,” Zife said sadly. “As did I.”

“Admiral,” Mar said softly. “Director Fontain is the interim Chief of Starfleet Operations—he is not going to be appointed as the permanent Chief. Indeed, he is only there to make certain that evidence has not been disposed of at Starfleet Command. I believe that the President is planning on asking you to resume that post to restore confidence to Starfleet.”

Zife nodded sharply. “I am, Admiral Shran. Perhaps it will ease that unease you mentioned when you can reveal to your officers and men that you have seen the evidence against Admiral Parker, and that we are not acting rashly here.”

“I had expected to return to Andoria, to take command of the Fourth Fleet, Mister President,” Shran answered after a moment. “But I will accept your offer and resume my post as Chief of Starfleet Operations for the good of the Fleet.”

“Thank you, Hwath,” Zife whispered as he stood, followed by everyone else. “Director Fontain will have the files delivered to your office—by courier. You cannot make copies of them, and you can only examine them in the presence of the courier, who will return them to the Bureau after you have seen enough.”

Zife walked around the desk and he shook the Andorian’s hand once more. “Let this be the final tragedy of the War we have fought, Admiral Shran. And together, let us restore Starfleet and the Federation to her former glory.”

“Thank you for taking the time to explain this me, Mister President. Director, Ambassador.” Shran said and then he turned on his heel and exited the office. As the door closed behind him, he swallowed heavily and he shook his head. No, Josiah Parker would never have done anything like this, he thought. Others yes, that he would believe, but not Josiah. He gathered himself as the President’s aide looked at him in concern, and then he nodded to her and left behind the politicians. Something is rotten in San Francisco, he thought as he entered the turbolift that would take him to ground level. He started to tap his comm badge, but then he forced down his hand. No. Not here. And not through official channels. But rest assured, Josiah, I will find out who is framing you—and why. The turbolift came to a halt, the doors slid open, and Shran walked free of the building with his head held high and with a purpose in his stride.

“Retract that tissue, Doctor Halloway,” the hologram ordered as he slowly rotated the flesh of the wounded symbiote. “Yes, right there—see the bruising upon the outer surface of the symbiote? That is where the Trill is injured.”

“How the devil did you see that?”

Woolsey looked up at the masked surgeon from Blackhawk and he smiled wryly. “I am a hologram, Doctor Halloway—my eyes are, in fact, every medical sensor onboard this vessel, in addition to the normal human range of vision. The slight discoloration was immediately obvious once we were able to examine the symbiote itself,” he bent back over the unconscious Trill and held out one hand. “Protoplaser,” he ordered, and Lara instantly slid the instrument into his hands.

“Protoplaser?” the Starfleet surgeon asked with a sudden start. “You intend to do internal surgery on a Trill symbiote?”

“Careful, Doctor Halloway; let us not subject the symbiote or the host to more damage than we must. The trick here is that the symbiote is very sensitive to any rupture of its body; while able to repair damage that the host has suffered, it is very susceptible to injury itself, and it not affected by many of our conventional treatments. This symbiote is suffering from internal injuries, and we must repair that damage, so that Commander Malik recovers.”

Halloway shook his head. “Doctor, I cannot concur—standard procedure is to treat the symptoms of the symbiote, but not to open it for internal surgery; the success rate on such procedures is extremely low.”

“Normally, I would agree with you . . . but the symbiote is still hemorrhaging with no signs of slowing. The damage must be repaired . . . or we will lose both our patients,” Woolsey said as he held the protoplaser close and made a small incision in the tough flesh of the symbiote. Dark fluid, deoxygenated oozed out. “Suction,” he whispered. “Nurse Madsen, watch the vital signs of the both the host and the symbiote; inform me immediately of any change.”

“Yes, Doctor. The symbiote’s are fluctuating; host is stable.”

“Increase the thorizatone to two point four milligrams.”

“Vital signs are stabilizing.”

“Excellent, Nurse. And there is the rupture, Doctor Halloway,” Woolsey said softly. “Vascular regenerator.”

“Vascular regenerator,” the human surgeon said quietly as he passed across the instrument. “A seventeen micrometer tear in the spinal vein,” he shook his head. “The symbiote would have bled out in another few hours.”

“Not on my watch, Doctor Halloway,” Woolsey replied as a red light over the door of the surgical ward began to flash. And he sighed. “Now we seal the incision and let Trill nature take its course,” he raised the protoplaser again and slowly closed the wound along the symbiote’s spine.”

“Miss Madsen, I want Commander Malik moved into the intensive care ward once the procedure is complete—monitor both the host and symbiote for the next twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, I will prepare sickbay for more casualties. Doctor Halloway, would you join me when you are finished here?”

“Yes, Doctor,” he answered as he finished sealing the surgical incision on Malik’s chest. “The patient is now closed—both of them, Doctor.”

“Good,” Woolsey said as Republic suddenly shook hard. “And not a moment too soon, it seems.”

Chan Shrak frowned at the ship captain’s and senior officers that filled his briefing room. “Commodore, the Klingons are pursuing us. It is not proper for Republic to continue on for Earth, while you fight our battle.”

Sig Hansen shook his head. “Commander Shrak, with the damage this ship has taken, you would add very little to the firepower assembled here. Between Blackhawk, Exeter,” he inclined his head towards Captain Elizabeth Shelby of the big Ambassador-class ship, “Endeavor,” pointing his hand at Captain Loren Garvick, the CO of the Nebula-class cruiser, “Aries,” Paul Mathison, captain of the older Renaisance-class cruiser smiled, “Agammemnon,” the Apollo-class cruiser commanded by Justin Sinclair, “and Captain Gannon’s Piper,” the Commodore nodded at the captain of the Andromeda-class light exploration cruiser, “we have the advantage over Mak’vegh’s flotilla in quality, if not numbers. Perhaps in the light of a strong Starfleet presence confronting him, Mak’vegh will give up his pursuit of you . . . if he does not,” and here Commodore Hansen shrugged. “If he does not, then he will rediscover why the Klingons came close to losing their last invasion of the Federation.”

Chan’s antennae quivered and he shook his head. “Commodore, he has given up everything he has—except the ships of his House Fleet which still pursue us. Captain Shelby has brought word that Chancellor Martok has declared the entire House of Mak’vegh as renegades; his worlds are already under assault by other Great Houses . . . he has literally nothing left to return to. He will not be persuaded by words.”

“Then we will show him the error of his ways with phaser beams and photon torpedoes, Commander. But in any case, our chances of stopping this—with or without violent action—before it goes any further can only happen if you and this ship are not present.” Hansen sighed. “If you were there, I fear that it would be like waving a red cape in front of an angry bull. Republic will continue on to Earth at your best speed, Mister Shrak, escorted by Captain deHaviland’s Denali,” she nodded confirmation of the order which would consign her Sequoia-class Light Cruiser to an escort. Sig glared across the table at Chan, as the stars streaked by in the windows of the briefing room beyond. “Arguing the point any further, Commander, will not change my mind; my orders stand. Understood.”

Hansen waited until all six remaining Starfleet officers had acknowledged the command and he smiled crookedly at Chan. “And you need not worry about looking the part of a coward, Mister Shrak. This ship has done far more than her part in fighting off Mak’vegh’s forces—you have earned a breather. Those of here, today, in this compartment, we know well the worth of USS Republic—we know what you and this ship’s crew have accomplished. You just concentrate on getting her home intact; we will deal with the Klingons behind us.” He said as he stood, and Chan nodded, his attennae standing straight and tall once again.

“Thank you, Commodore; that means a lot to this crew. We will see you at Earth, Sir,” Chan rose as well, followed by every one of the captain’s seated at the table.

“Godspeed, Commander. We will be no more than a day behind you,” and Hansen’s voice grew cold, because the little Fleet had received word from Earth just four hours ago of Admiral Parker’s arrest. “And rest assured, that we will discover what is going on at the heart of the government, Mister Shrak.”

Worf stood beside one of the few windows on the Imperial Klingon Battlecruiser K’mpec, watching as the stars streaked by. He wore a Starfleet uniform, and his hands were clasped behind his back as gazed into infinity.

“Your evaluation, Commander?” he asked.

A snort of Klingon laughter came from behind him. “Had the Chancellor not declared Mak’vegh an outlaw and renegade, it could have worked—it might still make those who follow him reconsider on whether or not today is a good day to die. But the Chancellor has made his decree, and Mak’vegh has nothing left to return to. He will throw his Warriors against the ships of Starfleet while he continues on in pursuit once he determines that his quarry is not among those who turn to face him.”

Worf sighed. “Agreed. But will he proceed alone or with some of his ships?”

“Mak’vegh is . . . bold. He will try to defeat those ships which are all that stand between him and Republic; no,” the Klingon officer said as he shook his head. “He will leave them behind to cover his pursuit. Seventeen ships, but mostly older models . . . they will attack your Starfleet, brother, and they will be destroyed. Boreth might survive, but the rest? They are already lost.”

The Federation ambassador and Starfleet officer turned around and he nodded his agreement to Kurn. “We will bypass the battle as well then—make our course to intercept Republic as rapidly as possible.”

“As you command, brother,” Kurn said with a Klingon smile. “My Warriors are prepare to deal with Mak’vegh once he shows himself.” Kurn turned to go, but he stopped at quiet word from his brother.

“It is good to see you content once again Kurn,” Worf spoke. “I had feared that never again would you know the joy of life.”

“I have my honor, Worf. And I am a Klingon Warrior; you,” Kurn paused, never turning around, “you were correct. It would have been a waste for me to destroy myself for the crimes of Gowron . . . and that mistake I shall never again make. Never again.”

Neither brother spoke for several moments, but then neither needed to. Worf heard the doors to his quarters slide open and then close once more and he continued to watch the stars flash by.

Note #2: I have never liked how the writers dealt with Kurn in the DS9 episode Sons of Morgh. I have retconned the entire idea of Worf erasing Kurn's memory away. Instead, Kurn was convinced to train Worf's son Alexander on Earth . . . which led to his enlistment in the Klingon Defense Forces during the Dominion War. Kurn returned to the Empire alongside Alexander in disguise, serving as a Warrior aboard Martok's flagship. Martok was aware of Kurn's true identity and he concealed the presence of the Warrior from Gowron, and after Martok became Chancellor restored Kurn's honor.

“She is certainly impressive,” Delena Mar mused as she—and her aides—followed Captain Caroline Talbot into Main Engineering aboard USS Constellation . . . the newest, if as yet incomplete, Sovereign-class Heavy Explorer of Starfleet. “I do have to wonder, however, if we are devoting too many resources to ships of this size—despite her capabilities, this ship can only be in one place at one time.”

Caroline smiled at her guest, but the friendly expression did not reach her eyes—which Mar noted and filed away; this woman was not one of her supporters. Although, Mar thought with a sense of glee (and some apprehension), after Tuesday the opinion of one Caroline Talbot would no longer matter.

“True, Madame Ambassador,” the Starfleet officer answered. “but as the Dominion War—and the recent Borg attack on Earth itself—showed, the Starfleet needs to have ships as individually capable as possible. Still, you are right—we do need numbers as well as quality,” and Caroline frowned, “which is why I believe that the Council made the wrong decision to halt production of the new Yorktown-class cruisers.”

Mar shook her head. “Those ships are too militaristic in nature, Captain Talbot—the Luna-class will take their place.”

“Ma’am, the Lunas are still having teething problems . . . and even when we get all of the gremlins out of their systems, they are undergunned for their size—an Intrepid carries as much firepower as a Luna-class explorer!”

The Argellian representative to the Federation Council frowned and she came to a halt and turned to face Captain Talbot. “Starfleet’s mission is to explore, Captain Talbot. We have too many ships as it is that are focused on the military side of the coin—the Defiants, the Akiras, the Steamrunners, the Sabres, and . . . now the Yorktowns.”

“We also have a duty to defend Federation space, Ma’am,” the Captain argued, and her face began to turn red as Mar shrugged.

“Against who? The Klingons and Romulans are now our allies—the Cardassians are broken, the Dominion has been defeated. If the Borg return—IF, Captain,” Mar snapped, cutting off Caroline who had started to answer, “we have your ship and eleven other Sovereign-class. Plus the horde of Defiants we built during the War. What more do we need?” Mar paused, then she smiled. “We are on the verge of a new era in Galactic Peace, Captain Talbot. The Federation must look to the future—not the past—and return to our mission of exploration. You may disagree . . . but the Council does not.”

“Perhaps they should,” Caroline muttered.

And Mar shrugged again. “But today, they do not. Is that the primary computer core interface?” she asked. “You are pleased with the processing power and capability of the bio-neural gel packs, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Caroline answered, relieved to be able to turn her attention from the idiocy of the woman standing beside her. “Constellation makes extensive use of the BNGPs to increase our raw computing power to ten times that of a Galaxy-class ship.” She smiled. “Binar engineers have managed to adapt the core to integrate fully with the gel-packs to take full advantage of the increased capabilities—we are the first starship in Starfleet to have one hundred percent integration of the new processors in all onboard systems.” She smiled again. “Even Enterprise after her refit will still rely on a mix of gel-packs and isolinear chips—Constellation is the cutting edge of things to come.”

“Yes . . . yes, she is,” Mar whispered and then she smiled. She nodded at Jas Cruikshank and she began to walk back towards the Warp Core—the Captain and her officers trailing behind, leaving her aide standing alone at the interface terminals. It was just for a moment, but a moment was all that Jas needed as he plugged a connector into the system and delivered the last dose of Ordan’s Gift directly into a gel-pack.

“Yes, yes. Such an incredible piece of machinery—some days it is almost impossible to believe that we built a ship like this,” Jas said as he concealed the connector/dispenser in one hand and then turned around. “Quite a leap forward from the old Hera, Commander.”

The Chief Engineer smiled and he looked over the still Core with pride. “Yes, she is, Sir. The tour is heading up to the Observation Deck—I believe that Captain Talbot laid on an extravagant buffet in honor of the Councilwoman.”

“Then let us join them, Commander,” Jas smiled. “I’m hungry after all this walking,” he said with a laugh. And the two men followed the Ambassador, the Captain, and their entourage from the Engineering spaces towards the turbolift.

Leaving no one behind to see the sudden flurry of activity on the computer interface panels as the infection was passed from gel-pack to gel-pack. Or hear the artificial computer voice as it gasped, and then recited . . ., “Blessed be Ordan.”

"I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams" - Hamlet

"Bones' remedies for problems seems to revolve around giving his patients a prescription of heavy drugs, booze, or taking them to strip clubs. He is either insane, a drug addict, or the best damn Doctor in Starfleet!" - SFDebris

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: Bing [Bot], MSNbot Media and 6 guests

You cannot post new topics in this forumYou cannot reply to topics in this forumYou cannot edit your posts in this forumYou cannot delete your posts in this forumYou cannot post attachments in this forum